


Distance

by KritzSanity



Series: May This Be Love [1]
Category: Vento Aureo - Fandom, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Emotional Distance, F/M, FuShei Week, Jojo - Freeform, Post-Purple Haze Feedback, Self-Doubt, Survivor Guilt, giogio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KritzSanity/pseuds/KritzSanity
Summary: Pannacotta Fugo spends most of his time in thought. Grim concentration on things far out of his power or so within reach that it haunts him habitually. Before a routine Passione meeting, he finds himself entrenched on a particularly disconcerting train of thought and in need of a grounding force to silence the self-doubts he still holds.





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy_Vagimond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Vagimond/gifts).



> It's been a long while since I've posted to this site, not that I've been out of writing practice. In any case, this particular fic spawned from my love of Purple Haze Feedback and inspiration from Crazy_Vagimond's numerous fics depicting the Fugo-Sheila ship.

Sat in the sweltering bistro, Fugo listlessly ran his eyes across the pages of his book over and over again, trying to read but finding his mind otherwise preoccupied. He had arrived ahead of time hoping to secure his old table - the gang’s old table.

A flurry of emotions stabbed at his heart at the thought of where he now sat, but they always subsided quickly as other concerns dragged themselves to the forefront of his mind. Still, the feelings clung to him ominously and built to a crescendo every couple of minutes when his thoughts invariably led back to the present.

He shifted uncomfortably and cringed at the feeling of his clothing plastered to his skin with sweat and the cool metal of his Passione pin pressed underneath his collarbone - a sensation he had not felt when he previously refused to wear the badge of the drug-dealing syndicate. The uncomfortably warm transition into fall that year in Naples and its 35° C, breezeless weather compounded with the building’s broken AC to create sauna-like conditions.

He had heard a fair number of insults aimed at his style before, but the hole-spotted suit he now wore was the only thing keeping him from passing out from heat exhaustion. He always ran hot but the unnatural and unexpectedly muggy atmosphere drove rivulets of sweat down his forehead until gravity inevitably drew them into his lap.

Wincing, he grabs his napkin to wipe at his glowing face. It was a mistake arriving so much earlier than the others and if he had known that the restaurant was under renovations he would have chosen show up fashionably late and apologize if needed. His watch only reads 10:43 a.m. to his dismay, another 17 minutes before he could expect Giorno to arrive and accept everyone’s reports.

Little had changed in those 6 months, but somehow Giorno still radiated an energy that made it abundantly clear in every interaction that he was so much higher above Fugo. It also made little sense since the new Don always acted in humility in his down-to-earth wisdom. Giorno had even tried to turn over Polpo’s old territory to him, trusting he’d use his intellect to run it well, but Fugo elected for its current Capo to keep it all. It didn’t feel right for him to take what should have been Bucciarati’s.

Despite every assurance to the contrary and numerous requests to think of him as a friend rather than a superior, Fugo found himself undeserving of his current position and “friends”. Even the self-appointed title of “Giogio” rolled off of Fugo’s tongue in an overly deferential tone no one else seemed to be affected by.

As for his acquaintances, Fugo often interacted with Mista, Murolo, and Sheila E in similarly professional and personal interactions. An extortion job there, a dinner catch-up here - though it was always on assignment when he spoke to the new, transformed Murolo. “Camaraderie” should be an apt description, but it wasn’t in his eyes. With everyone taking strides forward in their new roles, it felt like Fugo was now stuck in the present rather than the past. While the others could enjoy the moment and look forward to the next great thing, he shambled forward, unable to revel in any one moment before it passed and the next unexpected thing was upon him.

He swipes at the layer of sweat accumulating on his face again with a sigh. It was an improvement, in a way. He no longer stood on the crumbling shelf of days gone, right? Then what was he missing? He’d been no better than the Narcotics team as he fought them, he may have even been **more** lost than some of them. But now, an unfathomable abyss still lay between him and his fellow gangsters and it only seemed to widen rather than shrink with every close moment, deep conversation, or confided secret.

Sheila E was the easiest to talk to, funnily enough. In spite of her constant, blunt criticisms of Fugo’s glaring flaws, he found her candor comforting and presence relaxing when spent in comfortable silences he hadn’t shared with many others in his life. Conversely, she was also the most closed off of his companions, willing to converse about a range of subjects but rarely as open as the others attempted to be. He supposes he could respect that of her: her sense to not coax secrets from him in exchange for her own. Though, that isn’t to say she was entirely disconnected or indifferent to him.

In any case, he would soon toss these thoughts aside and go back to focusing on whatever presses him in the moment. But when he finds himself in want of stimuli he worries himself futilely, unable to find a solution to a problem he can’t properly diagnose.

“Is it just me, or is it unbearable in here? How can you stand this?” Looking up from his book to find the voice’s source, he sees Sheila E walking up to the chair closest to his.

Now offered a distraction to his ongoing existential crisis, he effetely replies, “It’ll get so bad that you’ll almost forget what comfortability feels like. Then you’ll remember we’re meeting here no matter what and ignore it.”

She shakes her head, “That’s… so cynical. How can you stand thinking like that?”

Pondering for a moment, he joylessly returns, “The same way I’m standing the heat, Sheila E.”

She shakes her head more fervently and purses her lips before saying, “Honestly Fugo, you need to lighten up sometimes. Can’t always be so grim.”

He laughs this time, retorting, “Really, **you** aren’t the best person to be judging me for that, Miss ‘wear all black and never smile’.”

“Oh, whatever,” the way she rolls her eyes and attempts to hide her smirk shows him that she’ll drop the subject for now - until Fugo inevitably drags it back up with his behavior. She takes a seat and stretches languidly, blowing a puff of air up at her damp bangs.

During the lull, Fugo considers her clothing for a second: he had commented bitingly on her outfit before, but never before had he wished it even somewhat acceptable for him to walk around in what amounted to a bathing suit and light vest. Honestly, it was somewhat offensive that she was complaining in such a revealing outfit while he sat in a confined suit jacket and pants.

Eyes trailing upward, they land on her deep brown eyes and intricate scar around her left eye - she refused to tell him how she got it, but Fugo never saw it as a disfiguring feature. She wasn’t facing him, instead looking off to his left with her head perched upon her hand while the light plays off of her youthful features. He wondered if they still bothered her as she once confided to him; he couldn’t understand her aversion before and still found it hard to see what she disliked.

“What are you looking at?”

It takes a moment for Fugo to snap out of his ruminations and realize that he had been practically gawking at her. “Hm? Oh, nothing…” his eyes snap back to his book and act as though he were continuing from where he had left off. His face flushes, but he hopes it isn’t noticeable in his already overheated state. Such a lapse in self-awareness wasn’t uncommon for him, but he didn’t usually do something so embarrassingly creepy as staring at someone.

Careful to keep his head trained on his book, he subtly darts his eyes up to gauge her reaction, hoping his faux pas wasn’t too inappropriate. It’s hard to see her fully, but she seems to have her eyes averted in an uncomfortable posture. He can almost physically feel the distance between them widen that much more.

Finally returning his full attention to his book, Fugo attempts to reorient where he last read and remember what he was even reading: “‘Al diavolo la mia missione’, Yossarian rispose indifferente. ‘E anche al diavolo il sindacato …’” In reading that single sentence, Fugo thought it best to abandon the book for now, with some twist of fate clearly wishing to play cruel tricks on him. He closes the book without moving from his slumped position, ready to plunge into further worrying until Giorno and Mista arrived.

“What are you reading?” Sheila E wonders aloud.

Flipping the red-covered book back and forth in his hands, Fugo doesn’t look up as he answers, “ _Catch-22_.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” he looks back to her, any previous awkwardness thankfully gone, “What is it about?”

Fugo furrows his brow. It wasn’t like Sheila E to make simple small talk. “Well, it’s about an American air force squadron in World War 2 stationed on Pianosa. It’s a satire on bureaucratic military procedure and hierarchy, with the main character searching for ways to be sent home or even desert.”

She hums a tone of acknowledgement before stating, “That sounds fitting.”

“It does?”

“Yes,” she pauses, formulating the rest of her thought, “It sounds like something you could relate to in a way. You hate the ‘common sense’ and rules and cultures of organizations, don’t you? Can’t you relate in that way?”

Anger swells within him as the too-true words wound him with each syllable. Was he? Wasn’t she telling the truth? Was it because it sounded like a presumption of who he was when she knew nothing? Did she know “nothing”? His anger disperses like smoke in a strong breeze and he scrambles for something to say, “Yeah… yeah, probably.” Oddly enough, he remembered Giorno using a similar turn of phrase. Had he talked to her as revealingly as he had Fugo? It seemed possible and - as violated as Fugo’s privacy felt - only fair considering what he learned about her.

Still, it was infuriating that everyone was able to read him like a book yet he couldn’t fathom a thing about anyone else, not even a girl he was literally sat before and staring in the eyes. Actually, now that he took a moment to observe them head-on, he did notice that they seemed different. More mature, in a stark contrast to her soft, young face. Some indescribable quality to them had changed from when he had first met her. On that note, Fugo couldn’t remember the last time she’d belittled herself or tried to make a self-sacrifice on a mission. He bitterly wished he could change just as easily.

Sheila E drags her chair closer to his, causing him to shrink back in surprise before quickly recomposing himself. “Is there anything you want to ask, Fugo?”

Does he? “Um… no?”

“You don’t sound very sure,” she intones.

“I guess I was just,” he chooses his words carefully, “Thinking about how you’ve changed since I met you. You know your worth now and it shows.”

Sensing his underlying meaning, she lowers her eyes and smiles forlornly, “You make it sound easy. It’s not something I don’t have to remind myself of, you know.” She gazes back into his eyes, “I still have to remind myself that I’m just as important as everyone else. Giorno still feels so unreachable… but my friends help keep me grounded.”

Fugo freezes as he contemplates her words. Was he really so stupid? He must be, no matter what his IQ tests said. Of course Sheila E hadn’t changed entirely on her own without even a hint of doubt. As indomitable as she seemed, it was ridiculous of Fugo to have ever thought that she simply breezed past her issues. For a moment, the gap between them shrinks massively and Fugo once again feels like he could tangibly reach out to someone, even if he falls just a little short on his own. How could he have forgotten that sensation? Not too long ago he had resolutely said “Sheila E is me” and decided to put his life on the line for a girl he’d just met. The innate connection encircles him again in that moment, cementing the euphoria it had first instilled in him in brilliant clarity.

The realization blindsides him despite having already occurred once before. He chuckles aloud at how a “genius” like him could be so utterly foolish.

“What’s so funny?” Sheila E huffs indignantly.

“Hm? Oh, nothing. You just… helped me realize something. Thank you, Sheila.”

She balks at the quick turn of sincerity in his tone, before melting into a confused acceptance, “You’re… welcome?”

Marvelling at the sentimental feeling now dwelling in him, Fugo deliberates on what he should do about it. He begins to ask her “Sheila, would you…-”

“Damn is it hot in here! Fugo, how have you not flipped out on the staff here yet?” Mista yells as he rounds the corner to the table. “I figured you’d be all the way back here, it’s where I would’ve gone too.” Had he not been in such good spirits and chosen to ignore Mista's uncouth blundering, Fugo might have reverted back to his old self and lashed out at the unintentional interruption. But as it was, he found the urge surprisingly easy to eschew and himself uncharacteristically content with what had already come to pass.

Coming around the corner next was Giorno, seemingly unaffected by the ungodly climate, hair only lightly frazzled by the humidity, “It could be better. But as long as we can discuss business, it will be fine.” He looks to the pair at the table, “Fugo. Sheila E. Have you ordered anything yet?”

“Er, no. I wasn’t sure how long the meeting would take.” Fugo answers, noticing Sheila E had already retracted her chair at some point.

Giorno nods, taking his seat and motioning for Mista to do the same, “Good. I took the liberty of ordering some cake and coffee, though, perhaps coffee wouldn’t be the best choice right now. In any case, how is everything in Naples as of late?”

The meeting proceeds in a boringly routine fashion, with discussions of their normal assignments: Giorno and Mista’s trips across Italy to cement Passione’s ever-expanding power, Fugo’s oversight of the remaining stand users of the gang in Naples, and Sheila E’s espionage and investigation assignments that Fugo sometimes aided in. Soon enough, the meeting was over and Giorno dismissed them as he and Mista hurried on their way to the airport to leave for meetings in Malta.

As they all departed Mista struck up conversation with Fugo, “I’m telling you, man! The ladies are all over me these days. Being third in command has its perks, I guess. Oi, if you ever want as many girls as you can put your arms around, Fugo, just say you’re fourth-in-command of Passione. I mean, **I** never would, but it might work out fine for you!”

“I think I’ll pass, Mista. I don’t need a bunch of girls who don’t care for me and I don’t care for.”

“Pshhh, you’re such a stiff, Fugo! But alright, whatever you say. But we’re gonna go out drinking when I’m back from Malta and I’ll force you to have a good time!”

Fugo genuinely smiles back, “Whatever you say, Mista.” While he feared what “good time” meant to Mista, he looked forward to it regardless, somewhat missing his friend’s over-the-top personality and even the inane hypotheticals he was known for.

Turning to continue his walk home, Fugo spies Sheila E walk up to him from the corner of his eye. “Fugo?”

“Hm, what is it, Sheila?”

She continues walking with him and he slows his gait so that she can keep pace as she reminds him, “Earlier, you were going to ask me something. Was it anything important?”

Struggling to remember what he had wanted to say, he finally recalls, “Ah, I just, er,” he gains cold feet when before the question had seemed so easy and he begins second-guessing his words - the abyss still existed in his mind, however manageable in size now. “I’d… just wondered if you wanted to go see a movie or something the next time you’re off assignment in town.”

“Hm,” her hesitation drops his heart into a free fall, “Did you have anything in mind?” Relief cascades over him and he finds himself releasing a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

Probing further he admits, “Not really, just wondered if you’d like that.”

She searches his eyes for a moment and Fugo fights the urge to dash them aside as his face once again begins to burn. After pausing a beat, she accepts, “Sure. That sounds like fun.” Her cool demeanor is in place as usual, but her words seem somewhat rushed out and she turns the opposite direction and tells him, “I’ll call you later about when and where.” The heat must have finally gotten to her in the direct sunlight as he just barely noticed the telltale signs of pink dusting her cheeks before she turned away.

Smiling to himself, he nods wordlessly and returns to his route homeward, somewhat lighter in his movements than he’d been in recent memory. Perhaps Fugo had just been imagining it all, or perhaps there was an actual shortening of the distance between him and his friends. He clearly wasn’t fit to judge, but he knew that for the first time in a while he wasn’t dreading the future as some unstoppable force of decay and randomness. And he had a feeling he would look forward to each moment there on out with the same bated breath he had now.

The prospect was terrifying, but comfortingly so.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that was probably a bit of a disappointment. It was definitely only a subtle FuShei fic, but I believe it said what I wanted to and hope it came across as something to be learned from or empathized with. I'm unsure if I'll write any more of this ship, but I suppose I'll just have to see how I end up feeling on it; this one definitely reads like the beginning of something, doesn't it? Once again, a big thanks to Crazy_Vagimond's almost single-handed support of the FuShei ship here on AO3 and all of the wonderful writings they've created as a result.


End file.
